


The Weight We Carry

by reginamea



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, F/F, Friendship, Gen, Vignette, blink and you'll miss the Faberry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 02:50:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1671902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reginamea/pseuds/reginamea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My father will kill me if he sees me reading this,” she whispers. Noah’s smile drops slightly and she swallows because she knows they are both aware of how much truth rests in her words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weight We Carry

Quinn isn’t quite sure how he got his hands on it, but one day Noah Puckerman corners her in-between classes somewhere between his locker and hers and shoves a piece of paper into her hands. For a moment, she only stares at him blankly, confused, but his eyes urge her to look down and so her eyes take in the paper in her hands. It has been folded twice, an inconspicuous piece of lined paper, torn from a notebook perhaps. Her gaze flickers back up to Noah momentarily before she unfolds the paper carefully and turns it so she can read the first words.

Noah’s sloppy handwriting is instantly recognizable, yet the words she finds are not. A small gasp escapes from behind her teeth as she reads and something stirs in her chest. Quickly she folds the paper again, her eyes darting to her left and right to see if any passing student may have heard, may have noticed, before settling on the boy in front of her.

"What is this?" she questions, but the words are a whisper and her voice is trembling, breathless, and she doesn’t understand why. Noah smiles, a smirk lurking barely hidden behind his lips which he may be able to keep covered from everyone else but her. She can read him like a book, always could.

"Noah," she hisses, and she can see something drop into place in his face, something disappearing from his eyes as he leans in, just barely, and whispers one word. "Ginsberg."

Another gasp escape’s Quinn’s lips and her hands seem to acquire a mind of their own as they shove the piece of paper, the precious piece of paper, into one of her books. She has half a mind to worry if it will bend or wrinkle, but the other half of her mind is torn between outrage and awe.

"What did you do?" she whispers. "How did you get this?" She cannot believe that there is an Allen Ginsberg poem between the pages of her U.S. history book. Her father would slap her silly if he ever found out about it, this filth. Noah’s shoulders lift in a little shrug, but once again his smile tells her more than his actual words do.

"I copied it from my cousin’s," he says like it should have been obvious. "He said everyone should read Ginsberg, apparently he’s the next big thing." Quinn holds back the snort threatening to escape at her friend’s ignorance. She slaps his wrist instead, just slightly.

"I know who he is, Noah, everyone knows who Allen Ginsberg is. All the newspapers are still talking about the trial." She briefly wonders when Noah might have last picked up a newspaper. "What I want to know is why you … why you did this? Why did you get me this?" He shrugs again, his eyes flickering to the linoleum floor beneath their feet. She can’t decide if he looks sheepish or smug.

"I knew you’d like it. Poetry," he clarifies. "And the other ones were too long to copy down real quick, so I got you this." Their eyes meet as he looks back up. "My father will kill me if he ever finds this on me," she whispers. Noah’s smile drops slightly and she swallows because she knows they are both aware of how much truth rests in these words.

Russell Fabray is not sympathetic to modern literature, least of all modern poetry, and certainly not of poetry that talks openly about ‘sinful behavior’ and ‘perversion’ in what he and many others have deemed vulgar and obscene language. Quinn may not have read _Howl_ but she has seen the quotes in the newspaper and heard them on the radio and even she shudders at some of the words Ginsberg has incorporated into his poems. But, contrary to her father, Quinn understands why, Quinn understands so much better than even Noah knows, and it scares her.

She was brought up in a Christian household by conservative parents and she has always known how her life was expected to turn out. She is 16. Two years from now she can see herself, walking down the aisle toward her husband-to-be, on her father’s arm, and, in her head, she has had her entire life planned out in two-year steps since she was six years old: school, marriage, child number one, a house, a dog, child number two, maybe child number three, and years and years of boredom after that. The fact that she has since come to realize that she dreams of a different life altogether barely lets her sleep at night.

She has read many books, and she knows that there are words to describe her and the life she dreams of - when she allows herself to dream - but she cannot bring herself to even think these words. She instead pushes them as far from her mind as possible. It is only sometimes, when she catches a glimpse of brunette locks in the hallway, or when she sits in class and finds herself staring at the girl in front of her, that the words come back to taunt her and dangle her dreams in front of her. She cannot seem to escape the temptation of her own mind, of her own body, and somehow books make her feel less alone. She may be a sinner, but at least she is not the only one.

Noah touches his fingers to her shoulder and the touch brings her back to reality. His eyes show his worry and regret, but Quinn shakes her head. “Thank you, Noah,” she whispers and hugs him, briefly. He may not understand completely, but at least he _understands_ , he knows how much this means to her. When she pulls back again, the silence between them is still heavy. He offers her his arm and she takes it without thinking, letting him escort her to class. They may not be dating, but he is her best friend and she wouldn’t want anyone else at her side right now. FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Written during Faberry Week 2011 but since it's not explicitly Faberry I never really submitted it. So here it is now, 3+ years later.
> 
> The poem in question is Allen Ginsberg's "Song" from his collection Howl and Other Poems from 1956.


End file.
